


My vessel is magnificent and fierce and huge . . . ish . . .

by Fairleigh



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Crossover, First Meetings, Gen, Humor, Tatooine (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-23 12:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16159115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: A pirate and a smuggler walk into a bar.





	My vessel is magnificent and fierce and huge . . . ish . . .

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ultra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultra/gifts).



He walked into the cantina like he was already drunk.

You’d honestly be inclined to think, from the way he was stumbling and swaying and weaving, that the permacrete floor was lurching erratically beneath his feet.

It wasn’t, though. Tatooine wasn’t even a seismically active planet anymore. Han Solo rolled his eyes with his patented casual contempt as he elbowed past the idiot and took his usual seat at the corner of the bar. His reputation was still good here, it seemed: The Ithorian barkeep served him up a glass of his usual without question or commentary.

That was nice. If Han felt like talking, they’d talk. If he didn’t, the barkeep knew well enough to leave him in peace. He liked that about this particular Mos Eisley cantina. Everybody was automatically assumed to be armed and dangerous, so nobody stuck their noses into anybody’s business unless they’d received an express invitation to —  

“Corellian rum? Mmm, that’s a nice beverage you got there.”

It was the idiot again, sliding into barstool beside him. Han couldn’t believe his foul luck.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” the idiot said to the barkeep, seemingly oblivious to Han’s growing displeasure. “But make it a double . . . oh, and put it on his tab. My old friend here is paying!”

By the time the idiot’s jocular hand had landed on Han’s shoulder, Han already had the business end of his blaster buried in the soft, yielding flesh of the idiot’s belly. “That’s funny,” he growled. “Did you say you know me? Cuz I don’t recall ever having made your acquaintance, mister . . .”

“Jack Sparrow. _Captain_ Jack Sparrow,” the idiot — Sparrow, he said his name was Sparrow — announced in a blustery, overloud voice. “I’m a pirate.”

“Uh huh.” Han was not impressed.

“My ship’s the Black Pearl. Perhaps you’ve heard of her — ah!” The barkeep had returned with the double shot of rum. Sparrow knocked it all back in a single gulp. “Mmm, that’s the good stuff. Bring me another!” he ordered.

Han grimaced. Corellian rum was damn expensive — that one double shot cost about as much as the average Outer Rim family needed to live on for a month — and there’d been an unexpected blockade on his smuggling run three standard weeks ago. He’d been boarded and searched, and those Imperial bastards had seized the contents of his entire cargo hold as suspected contraband. He thanked the stars they didn’t decide to impound the Falcon, too. However, all this meant that he was operating on a loss at the moment, Jabba was gonna want to freeze his ass in carbonite, and he _definitely_ didn’t have the extra credits to quench this stranger’s not inconsiderable thirst.

The barkeep put a second double shot of rum down in front of Sparrow —

Han made a grab for the glass —

Simultaneously, so did Sparrow —

And Sparrow’s hand knocked into Han’s, which knocked into the glass, which went tumbling to the floor and shattered.

“Hey!” Sparrow protested. His expression was almost comically woeful as he regarded the spilt rum. “What’re you doing? That was a waste of perfectly good rum!”

Han merely shrugged. “Who cares? It’s _your_ wasted credits, not mine.”

“Oh, um, uh, you know, saaaaaay . . . about that . . .” Sparrow looked suddenly shifty-eyed.

Han saw where this was going. “Tell me you don’t have the credits on you.”

“Not as such . . .” Sparrow took in Han’s stormy expression and held up his hands in placation and continued, “But! I can fix it! I promise! Plenty of folks here owe me! Just you wait —”

Sparrow stood up abruptly, just as an attractive, blue-skinned Twi’lek woman wearing a skimpy, provocative dancer’s costume was passing, and caught her by the elbow. “Lila, darling!” he cried.

“Jack?” she said, surprised. Clearly, she knew him. She paused. Blinked. Then, after another long pause, she smiled brightly. Her teeth were blindingly white.

Things were looking good for Sparrow. He winked conspiratorially at Han. “Long time, no see! Why Lila, darling, you wouldn’t believe it, but, true story —”

She slapped him so hard that he was practically knocked off his feet. He lost hold of her elbow, and she continued on her merry way, nary a pitying backward glance as she left a stunned Sparrow behind.

“I . . . I don’t think I deserved that,” Sparrow muttered.

Han said nothing in reply. Instead, he reached once more for the blaster holstered on his belt.

Sparrow more than took the hint. “Don’t worry! Heh heh heh. I said I can fix it! Just give me. . .” He held up seven fingers, checked his hands, puzzled, and then held up eight fingers instead. _Eight minutes_.

Yeah, Han could nurse his glass of Corellian rum along for a further eight minutes. He gave a one-shouldered shrug — _be my guest_ — and watched Sparrow stumble, sway, and weave his way over to the sabacc gambling tables.

“How much more does he have to lose?” Han wondered aloud to the empty barstool beside him.

Captain Jack Sparrow had three gaudy rings from his fingers, two semi-precious stone beads from his hair, and one cracked decicredit chip from his back pocket to lose, as it turned out, and it took only _six_ minutes, not seven or eight as he had guestimated, to lose them all.

Han sighed. Those two drinks were going on his tab whether he liked it or not, he could already tell, and _goddammit_ he wouldn’t be able to show his face at this particular cantina again until he settled his outstanding bill . . . which he couldn’t do at this precise moment. Okay, yes, he was majorly peeved. Time to leave — and take this obnoxious man with him — before the situation got any worse for either of them.

After an apologetic glance and shrug at the barkeeper, he frog-marched Sparrow out of the cantina and onto the dusty Mos Eisley street. Sparrow didn’t resist overmuch. Instead, he talked. “I can fix it, really I can, I’m a pirate! You need credits? Pick any Imperial cargo ship. We’ll board ’em, there and gone with the treasure before they know it. The Pearl is the fastest space vessel in —”

“Faster than the Millennium Falcon?” Han scoffed. “I doubt that.”

“No, no, c’mon, come and see for yourself. She’s in the landing bay right over there, and she’s brilliant, just —”

Han tuned out the prattle. The landing bay in question was empty, save for a forlorn, beaten up landspeeder. The sort of landspeeder that didn’t rise more than a meter above the ground. Nobody but a delusional drunkard was breaking atmosphere in _that_.

“— my vessel is magnificent and fierce and huge . . . ish . . .” Sparrow stuttered to a halt as he took in the empty landing bay and the beaten up landspeeder.

Han snorted.

“My vessel is gone! Gone! Who took it?! Who took it?!” Sparrow whirled around, but there were no likely culprits in sight. Nobody else in sight, as a matter of fact, besides Han.

“So, uh . . .” Sparrow scratched his head. Han wondered if he had parasites. “Right. Credits! You need them! Um . . . maybe you need a first mate? I’m your man, yes, I am, Captain, um, uh, what did you say your name was . . .?”

Oh yeah, a first mate was exactly what Han did _not_ need. Chewbacca was going to howl with laughter. Looked like there was no helping it, though.

“Let’s go,” Han said wearily. He felt like he was a thousand years old. “ _My_ vessel is back in the other direction, and I’m sure we can find _something_ for you to do . . .”


End file.
